


Praying Like a Fool That's Been On the Run

by naimeria



Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Feels, M/M, Prompt Fill, Rickyl, could be read as bromance or as a pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:22:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naimeria/pseuds/naimeria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rick is slowly losing his center, and he goes chasing after demons when someone follows him. It doesn't go well. NO CHARACTER DEATH. Just blood. And feels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Praying Like a Fool That's Been On the Run

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from tumblr: **_Rick or Daryl, you can pick, ALMOST DIES AND IT IS THE OTHER’S FAULT AND FEELS COME OUT._**  
>  Daryl-dixongrimes, you have a way with words. ;D
> 
> I was going to make this a winter fic, but then I had **this** awful idea.

He could hear the phone ringing, deep within the recesses of the prison. He sat in the middle of the floor, grinding his teeth, pushing his heels into the concrete, trying in vain to block out the sound. He knew no one else could hear it – he wasn’t that far gone – but it was compulsion, a pull, because he knewwhat was on the other line. _Who_ was on the other line. And as much as he knew how twisted it was, he wanted to hear those voices again.

His hands found his hair, and he pulled, hands over his ears, but it only grew louder, and he stood with the sudden tenacity of a drowning man at the surface of a lake. He clenched his shaking hands into fists as he made his way out of the cell block. He heard a gruff voice call his name, but he needed to get away from it. This was his problem, his burden, his – his mistake. He had to make it alone, without anyone else being dragged down to this sick level.

But as he made his way to the boiler room, and his stomach clenched, he heard them call his name again. He broke into a run, dodging through the hellish room and bolting through corridors until he saw it. The table, the gated walls, the phone.

There it sat, so passive, so simple.

So silent.

“Rick.”

Rick turned, knife held before him, and there was Lori.

Her hair framed her face delicately, dark lashes falling gently upon pale cheeks. Her dark eyes found his, and she smiled. He made a broken sound, holding out his empty hand, but she remained motionless. She looked over his shoulder.

The phone rang.

“She was never yours, man. Ya gotta know that.”

Rick’s blood froze. He turned, slowly, following Lori’s gaze. And there he was, leaning casually against the edge of the table.

“Shane,” Rick said, low, a warning.

“I mean, come on, man,” he continued, as if Rick had never spoken. “When you were gone, who was left to pick up the pieces?”

The phone rang again.

“Stop,” Rick said, shaking his head, looking away, at the ceiling, the floor, the toes of his boots, the tip of the knife as it gleamed in his hand.

“Well, you got rid of me. I gotta admit, I was pretty surprised. I didn’t think you’d have it in you. But what was it for, Rick?” He stood up to his full height and sauntered over to Rick, hands on his waist. “You killed me, and then what? What happened to Lori, Rick?”

Rick shook his head, muttering, trying to make the fucking thing go away. He could control this, none of it was real, Shane was in his head-

“Now look where she is, man! You got her killed. That’s on _you_!” Shane yelled in his face. Rick felt a fleck of spit land on his upper lip. The phone rang again. “I kept her more safe than you ever could, Rick! You know that, Rick? Rick!”

Rick saw red. With a pained yell, he lashed out, bringing the knife up and slamming it down into Shane’s shoulder.

His vision blurred.

“Rick,” Daryl said.

Rick stopped, breathing hard, as Daryl’s face came into focus.

Daryl’s hand pawed at the air for a moment before landing on Rick’s hand – the hand that was still wrapped around the knife. The knife that was stuck in his shoulder.

Rick’s breath caught in his throat. They both fell to their knees together, and Daryl gave a pained grunt, leaning forward. Rick keened, other hand on Daryl’s shoulder, holding him up, saying his name over and over again, a mantra.

“S’okay,” Daryl muttered, eyelids half mast, and Rick shook his head, forehead creased, eyes blurred with tears, and his hand was pressed around the blade, keeping the blood from leaking around it.

“No, no,” was all Rick could manage, voice broken, and his hands were shaking, his teeth chattering, truly scared in more ways than he’d ever been before. “I can’t – I’m so sorry, I-”

The phone rang.

“HERSHEL!” Rick screamed, and Daryl’s breathing grew more erratic, and he was trying to say something, but Rick only screamed louder. “HERSHEL!!”

“Rick, it’ll be fine,” Daryl said, and Rick bowed his head, keening, a broken sob as the tears fell, this wasn’t happening, he couldn’t have, but he did, he was broken, truly gone, and he’d _hurt Daryl –_

“Ya got good aim, Rick,” Daryl said dully, coughing hard before sagging forward. “Don’ think ya hit anythin’ vital,” he said. Rick shook his head again, other hand braced against Daryl’s uninjured shoulder, over his heart, and Daryl went limp with a curse, and Rick gave a startled yell.

He heard Hershel and Glenn yell, and Rick called to them again, yelling over and over as Daryl slumped against his chest, unconscious.

Rick sobbed, shaking his head, running his hand everywhere he could touch, making sure Daryl was still breathing – god, _he’d done this._ He’d put a knife in his closest friend, because of his fucked mind, because of –

The phone rang again.

“God DAMMIT!” The need hold onto Daryl won out over the need to smash the phone into pieces, but only just. He rocked back and forth, holding the man, who was normally so tall and resilient, now uncomfortably pliant in his arms.

Footsteps echoed down the hall, and a second later Glenn was there, huffing, boots skidding on the concrete. Rick looked up at him, and could only stare at him. Glenn stared, and it took him two seconds to figure out what must’ve happened. His gaze darkened, and he called Hershel’s name, tone reflecting the warning he felt. Rick took another second, pressed his forehead to Daryl’s good shoulder, before shifting him in his arms. “We need to get him back to the block,” he said, his voice cracked and broken.

“Rick, I-” Glenn said, wary, and Rick nodded, because he deserved it, deserved Glenn’s doubt and more.

“We get him there, Hershel and Carol fix him up,” he refused to hear how his words slipped just so at the mention of Carol, “and you lock me in a cell.”

Glenn didn’t move. Rick stood, panting with the effort, his eyes still blurred. He sniffed, once, and fixed a stern eye on Glenn. “We get him to the cell block, then you lock me up.”

Glenn stared at him, looked to Daryl, unconscious and bleeding in his arms, and nodded.

The phone continued to ring.

 

It was two and a half days before he saw Daryl again.

His wrists hung dully, handcuffed around the bedpost, as he sat, head bowed, hair in his face. The floor was shifting, and his stomach burned something fierce – three days was the last meal – but he told himself, over and over, it was only right. He wouldn’t let it happen again – he couldn’t.

He could hear his own breathing, hard in his ears. His wrists throbbed with every beat of his heart, and he relished in the distant pain, the punishment.

He had done it. Before, he could handle it. It was his problem, his burden. He had been too weak to control it, to silence it, and now it was too late. His group wasn’t safe with him anymore – they had to think that. And he had to agree. If they asked him to leave, he would, in a heartbeat. And if Daryl – if he was even still alive, well, he’d probably want to share some choice words with him. Or maybe Rick would just ask him to stick an arrow in his shoulder. That might work.

The guilt was almost suffocating. He forced himself to breathe through his nose, his chest heaving, his brain throbbing behind his eyes -

“Rick.”

He jumped hard, the chains on the cuffs clacking against the bed frame.

There he stood, leaning against the cell.

“Daryl,” he said, voice weak from disuse. He stared, hard, and the unbidden thought that he was dead, back only to remind him. The thought made him gasp, jerking backwards, looking away.

“Rick,” Daryl said again, and he unlocked the door with a loud click. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t,” Rick tried, refusing to believe, even as Daryl walked into the cell. He smelled like antiseptic, but also of dirt and sweat. He smelled like Daryl, like home.

 _“I killed you,”_ Rick whispered, broken, a punch to the gut.

Daryl merely snorted. “Ain’t that easy to kill me, Grimes.”

He sat down on the cot, and Rick jerked. Daryl let out a frustrated huff, then grabbed Rick’s jaw. “Would ya look at me?”

Rick’s eyes met Daryl’s, unblinking, and Daryl sighed. “I know you’ve had a hard time o’things,” he said. “But it ain’t your fault.”

“How can you even say that?” Rick asked, trying to look away, but Daryl’s hand was firm.

“Cause, ya weren’t _you,”_ he said. “Shit fucks with your head. I git it, I do.” Rick shook in his grip, eyes darting to and fro, and Daryl growled.

“Les’ git these chains off a ya,” he tried instead, reaching into Rick’s pocket and pulling out the key. He unlocked them with a quiet click, and the handcuffs fell to the ground. Daryl grabbed Rick’s hands, rubbing blood back into them slowly, and Rick stared, unsure of what to do.

“You’re,” he tried, “you’re really here?”

Daryl looked up at him, eyes incredibly sad for a split second before they hardened, sturdy, something Rick could latch onto.

“I told ya, takes more’n that ta kill a Dixon.”

Rick gave a sob and ran his hands along Daryl’s sides, up his arms, touching his neck, his cheeks, then back down again. For two days he’d told himself he’d done it, he’d killed the closest thing to happiness he’d found in this desolate place, he was gone, and it would have been on him, all on him. Yet here he was, letting Rick run his hands up and down his body, not judging, not flinching, just watching him with those eyes, the eyes that Rick thought he’d never see again. “Daryl,” he said, leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together. It came out on a sigh, all the exhaustion and fear and self-loathing coming out in one motion.

“Rick,” Daryl said gruffly, pressing on his forehead, just enough pressure to let him know he was there.

That he wasn’t leaving. 


End file.
